


Underneath It All, We're Just Savages

by GaylamityJane



Series: Savages [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Mildly Dubious Consent, Vaginal Fingering, Veela Mates, veela culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28562154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaylamityJane/pseuds/GaylamityJane
Summary: As if Hermione wasn’t nervous enough about meeting Fleur’s matriarchal grandmother, her first introduction to the infamous Delacour clan presented a few additional challenges. Chief among them were the unique ways in which veela presented their jealousy and, as it turned out, her girlfriend’s personal brand of savagery.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Series: Savages [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092719
Comments: 20
Kudos: 299





	Underneath It All, We're Just Savages

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few quick things! This is my first foray into the world of Fleurmione - YAY! That being said, I took a lot of liberties with the veelas, including how they have a familial matriarchal clan system, the fact that Monsieur Delacour took Apolline's last name, and that there's generally a lot of openness in terms of sexuality and polyamory. They also have different varieties of powers dependent on how much veela lineage they possess, which is something I'd like to explore more of in the future.
> 
> Also, I know very little French and used online translators for most of the text. It's mainly little phrases and sayngs, though there are one or two sentences as well so I have some rough translations below:
> 
> \- Bonne nuit = Good night  
> \- Bonsoir = Good evening  
> \- Château des Cygnes = House of Swans (?)  
> \- Comment allez-vous? = How are you?  
> \- Grande mort / Très grosse mort = Big death / Very big death  
> \- Je vais essayer = I'm going to try  
> \- Ma petite fleur = My little flower  
> \- Mon chéri = My darling  
> \- Vous devez visiter davantage = You need to visit more

Château des Cygnes was, in a word, exquisite. 

Hermione’s eyes widened as she stepped out of the horse-drawn carriage, her grip on Fleur’s forearm tightening ever so slightly. A few months ago, she wouldn’t have believed that the Delacours’ Provencal manor could pale in comparison to any other estate. But the ancestral home of Fleur’s veela grandmother achieved just that—a sprawling white stone palace with lush formal gardens and enough opulence to halt Hermione in her tracks. 

All at once, she felt terribly out of place; her navy blue dress not expensive enough, her measly English archivist position at the Pierre Bonaccord Library in Paris too low-brow.

As if sensing what was wrong, Fleur gave her arm a comforting squeeze. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Hermione’s shoulder. “She will love you, mon chéri.” The gesture was light, but it helped to ease the nervous flutter in Hermione’s stomach as they ascended the grand stone staircase to the entrance.

As warm and inviting as Madame and Monsieur Delacour were, Hermione had been feeling rather anxious about meeting Fleur’s grandmother. She was, quite literally, the matriarch of the Delacours, which meant that everyone valued her opinion the most—including Fleur. It was something that Hermione had inwardly harped on since the tradition of hosting the annual clan summit at the chateau was announced to her. After all, the two of them hadn’t dated for very long. It wasn’t entirely within the realm of impossibility for Fleur’s feelings toward their relationship to be swayed by the highly respected opinion of her grandmother.

Regardless, there was no turning back now. Fleur had spent the last two weeks in search of the perfect gown for the occasion, having finally settled on a rose pink off-the-shoulder number with floral lace appliques that cascaded from bodice to skirt. And then she’d spent the better part of the day visiting magical beauty shops in Paris with Gabrielle, looking for new potions and charmed cosmetic products to try, despite Hermione’s insistence that she didn’t need them because she looked perfect without all of the unnecessary effort (which had, justifiably, earned Hermione a glare so unnerving, she’d prefer to never receive it again). Needless to say, the importance of the event was not lost on Hermione, and she tried to be mindful of Fleur’s position as they entered the chateau.

The interior was elegant but tasteful; all sleek white marble flooring and carefully placed flower arrangements. The foyer itself was larger than Hermione’s apartment, with wallpaper enchanted to resemble the gardens found outside its walls. The only difference was that, contrary to the seasonal frost covering the real gardens, the elaborately trimmed hedges painted on the wallpaper remained a vibrant emerald green.

Fleur’s grandmother was standing in the middle of the foyer, greeting a growing congregation of silvery-haired veela cousins and their dates. As she and Fleur approached, Hermione couldn’t help but revel at the older veela’s beauty, gracefully aged though she was; sleek, grey-streaked hair pulled into a high bun wrapped in a braid, diamond jewelry and shimmering floor-length gown reminiscent (at least, to Hermione) of those worn by British royalty at formal events. The only thing missing was a crown.

“Bonsoir, Grand-mère,” Fleur greeted the old veela with two kisses to the cheek.

“Bonsoir, ma petite fleur!” Her grandmother gushed, cupping either side of Fleur’s face as if the two of them hadn’t seen one another in ages. Which, technically, Hermione supposed was true. Months, at the very least, as Hermione had yet to meet the renowned clan leader.

Once the two had exchanged their pleasantries, they turned their attention toward Hermione. She noted that they had the same ocean-blue eyes, slim noses, and prominent jawline, even if Fleur’s grandmother’s was somewhat less defined than it might’ve been decades ago.

“Erm… Bonsoir,” Hermione repeated the greeting and then, in a flutter of uncertainty, curtseyed to Fleur’s grandmother. “Madame.”

Fleur made an attempt at being supportive by chewing at the inside of her cheek in order to keep her composure. However, when a few lingering veela cousins giggled out loud at the fumbling display, her amusement transformed into an irritated warning glare, which immediately stifled her younger cousins while simply causing the older ones to roll their eyes at her.

Rather than laughing, Fleur’s grandmother gave Hermione a warm smile. “Bonsoir! You must be ze beautiful ‘Ermione I ‘ave been ‘earing about,” she greeted, pressing two featherlight kisses to Hermione’s reddened cheeks. “Please, call me Geneviève.”

“Geneviève,” Hermione repeated, attempting to soften the G sound to the correct pronunciation.

The veela’s ocean-blue eyes widened. “Magnifique! Forgive me for being surprised, but ze G can be quite difficult for English speakers to pronounce sometimes.” As she spoke, Geneviève grasped Hermione’s hand gently between her own, thumbs brushing along the back of the witch’s knuckles. Waves of calm emitted from the veela’s caress, until Hermione’s hand had completely relaxed beneath her touch. She gave the witch’s knuckles one last gentle pat before letting go. “At zis rate, we will ‘ave you fluent in no time, ma fille.”

Hermione smiled, raising her head a bit higher. “Thank you, Geneviève.”

Fleur’s grandmother winked. “But of course.”

With more blonde veela cousins filing into the manor, Hermione returned to Fleur’s side and released a steadying breath. As if by second nature, Fleur linked their arms together and began to lead Hermione up the elaborate imperial staircase, which then divided into two separate flights of stairs framed by the same sculpted banisters and gold filigree. Fleur didn’t have to consider which route to take before she guided Hermione to the right.

“I told you zat she would love you.”

Hermione shook her head. “I know. I should’ve listened to you.”

Fleur smiled. “Mon chéri, you should know by now zat you should always listen to me.”

With the sheer size of the chateau, everyone was more or less scattered throughout its walls. Hermione was introduced to a handful of Fleur’s quarter veela cousins drinking champagne in the corridor, and then she met a number of Fleur’s half veela cousins clustered within the ballroom, where Madame and Monsieur Delacour were already swaying on the dancefloor.

“Fleur, do you—” Hermione was in the middle of asking her girlfriend if she wanted to dance, when the veela tightened her hold on Hermione’s arm and muttered something beneath her breath that sounded vaguely like _Merde_. “What?”

Fleur was staring somewhere behind Hermione, glossy pink lips twisted into a disapproving frown. Which, truthfully, was all the temptation that Hermione needed to turn around; her own curiosity always getting the better of her in the end. 

Another blonde veela cousin was approaching them and … well, Hermione had to admit that she was breathtakingly gorgeous. She was a bit taller than Fleur, and a few years older from the looks of it. Her smile was as sweet as honey, but the purposeful way she swayed her hips spoke volumes of a different sort; as did her choice of dress, the red silk plunging remarkably low for a formal occasion. Or any occasion, for that matter.

As she approached, Fleur whispered discreetly to Hermione. “Do _not_ let her touch you.”

Before Hermione could press the topic, the cousin was in front of them, dabbing a kiss to each of Fleur’s cheeks. Unlike the greetings shared with the rest of Fleur’s relatives, Hermione noted that this cousin’s scarlet-red lips did not touch Fleur’s cheeks and nor did Fleur’s lips touch hers.

“Bonsoir, petite Fleur!” the veela greeted, the nickname sounding far more facetious than endearing as it spilled from her mouth.

Fleur smiled all the same, as charming as ever. “Bonsoir, Camille! Comment allez-vous?”

Camille disregarded her pleasantries with a delicate wave of the hand. “Bien, cousine, bien…” And then, the blonde was turning her attention to Hermione—moss green eyes glinting with a mischievous glee that instantly made Hermione nervous. “And… who is your little friend?”

For someone so slender and delicate at first glance, Fleur’s strength was quite remarkable; solid steel hidden beneath her silky exterior, no doubt due in part to her lineage. She pulled Hermione close to her so swiftly, the witch was nearly lifted off the ground by sheer force.

“Zis is ‘Ermione,” Fleur replied, slipping a possessive arm around Hermione’s waist. “She is my _mate_.”

“ _‘Ermione,_ ” Camille repeated the name slowly, allowing it to roll off of her tongue in such a way that it almost sounded vulgar. “Ze pleasure is all mine.”

Rather than leaning in for the customary cheek kisses, Camille held her hand out instead.

“Camille…” Fleur warned, tense and pleading all at once.

“What? I am be’aving!” Camille defended, keeping her hand held out for Hermione to shake. “It would be rude to not properly introduce myself to your mate, non?”

Sensing the tension between the two, Hermione placed a comforting kiss to Fleur’s cheek. “It’s okay,” she reassured. “She’s right, and it would be rude of me to refuse.”

Fleur, however, would not be easily placated. “‘Ermione, s'il vous plaît…”

But Hermione reached out to shake Camille’s hand anyway, determined to ensure that Fleur’s family would not see her as some rude British witch or—Merlin forbid—an uncultured muggleborn who was so ignorant toward magical creatures that she wouldn’t even greet them.

Camille’s grip was surprisingly gentle at first; almost to the point of being a caress. However, as Hermione began to pull away, the veela’s hold on her hand tightened. Confused, Hermione looked up, only to see that the green of the veela’s eyes had become much paler than before, a soft glow taking hold of her irises; her red-painted lips pulled into an impish grin.

A tingling sensation spread from the tips of Hermione’s fingers to the curve of her shoulder, effectively raising the hair on the back of her neck and, to her embarrassment, hardening her nipples into stiff peaks. Then, before she could even process what was happening to her body, an overwhelming throb began to pulse between Hermione’s legs. 

A particularly loud moan of surprise ripped from her lips, catching the attention of a few of Fleur’s cousins. Hermione’s face burned with embarrassment, but Camille’s grip was as unrelenting as whatever she seemed to be doing to Hermione. Powerful vibrations reverberated the most sensitive parts of Hermione’s body, throbbing like a secondary heartbeat. 

The witch’s knees threatened to buckle, legs trembling unsteadily where she stood. Were it not for Fleur’s hold on her waist, she would’ve surely crumbled to the ground on her hands and knees, riding out the strange phantom pleasures that were, at once, both wonderful and terrifying.

“Camille!”

The telltale voice of an irate Apolline Delacour echoed through the ballroom, causing Camille to release Hermione’s hand. Once the physical contact was finally broken, the effect she’d had on the witch disappeared as suddenly as it’d occurred, leaving Hermione panting.

“Are you alright?” Fleur asked, her eyes trained on her cousin’s retreating figure.

Hermione nodded, still trying to regulate her breathing. What in the bloody hell was that?

Seemingly comforted by the fact that her mate was safe, Fleur dropped her arm from around Hermione’s waist. “I said not to let her touch you. Was I not clear enough?”

“Fleur, I didn’t—” Hermione tried to defend herself, but Fleur wasn’t having it.

“Do not say zat you didn’t know, ‘Ermione Granger, because I _told_ you!” Fleur crossed her arms over her chest, her glossy pink scowl deepening by the second. “Camille likes to play games. She is ‘armless, of course, but she loves to toy wiz ozers. Especially zose who are connected to me.”

Hermione frowned. “Why?”

Fleur shrugged half-heartedly. “Jealousy, I suppose. Maman is ze oldest daughter of Grand-mère, which means zat she will serve as ze Delacour clan’s Matriarch when Grand-mère dies. As Maman’s oldest daughter, I will serve as ze Delacour clan’s Matriarch when Grand-mère and Maman die.”

“And… Camille wants to be the clan’s Matriarch?”

“Oui. But ze problem wiz Camille is zat she loves power, but ‘ates responsibility. Zerefore, she does not see ze position as dutiful. Only beneficial.”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t know.”

“ _Oui._ ” The syllable was spoken with an iciness that shocked Hermione to her very core. “So per’aps next time you will listen to me when I tell you somezing.”

“Fleur—”

“Gabrielle and I ‘ave to speak wiz Grand-mère and Maman. It is tradition for ze Matriarch’s direct line to converse about ze new year and what zat means for ze clan. You should find Papa. ‘e will keep an eye on you while I am gone.”

Before Hermione could so much as try to respond, Fleur was walking away with little more than a flip of blonde locks over a delicate shoulder, her decision made for the both of them. The witch could only watch as the veela met with her mother, sister, and a handful of others—including Camille—near a towering chocolate fountain at the far end of the ballroom. Hermione noted that Fleur and Camille purposely remained on opposite ends of the group, not even looking in each other’s direction as the cluster of them filed out of the room altogether.

After picking up a glass of sparkling mixed punch from a passing server, Hermione found Monsieur Delacour reminiscing with a few of the half veela cousins about their respective years at Beauxbatons. She did her best to listen intently to the little details—how they’d all drank from the Flamel fountain to help calm nerves during exam season; how the cuisine at the school was better than anything any of them had ever tasted; how one of the cousins had accidentally slept with a tree nymph after drinking too much mulled wine on Christmas—though Hermione found herself only half-interested in the overall conversation. She nodded along, laughed at the correct cues, and answered questions about Hogwarts when prompted, but she couldn’t help thinking about how Fleur had looked as she’d left the ballroom; the muscles of her jaw tightly flexed, her shoulders rigid as stone pillars, a mixture of anger and annoyance so clearly simmering to a boil at the very surface.

Hermione so desperately wished that she could resolve the tension, but it would be another two hours before she saw Fleur again.

______________________________________________________________________________

By the time the summit had concluded, Hermione’s own frustration was reaching its climax. After all, the only thing she had done was try to be polite, to ensure that Fleur’s family didn’t view her in a negative light. Even after the Battle of Hogwarts, she’d dealt with prejudice toward her non-magical lineage—in Paris, especially, where there were still a surprising number of witches and wizards who questioned her capabilities, despite everything she’d achieved in Britain. And then, with all that weighing down on her, Fleur’s cousin had the nerve to… well, Hermione still wasn’t quite sure what she’d done exactly. What Hermione did know was that it was completely uncalled for and downright humiliating, to say the least.

Thankfully, it was eventually announced that dinner was being served and Monsieur Delacour did Hermione the honor of escorting her into the banquet hall; a rectangular room with an impossibly long white cloth table accented by elaborate floral arrangements and porcelain dishes marked by a design of delicately placed gold swans. Framed portraits of past clan Matriarchs lined the walls, and a row of crystal chandeliers hung overhead, causing the gold cutlery and polished drinking glasses to gleam.

When she saw that Fleur, Gabrielle, Apolline, and the rest of Geneviève’s direct line were already seated at the table, Hermione’s temper calmed some. She still had half a mind to shout at Fleur. After all, she was the one who should be angry. She was the one who should be giving Fleur the cold shoulder for the way that the veela had acted—not the other way around. But doing so in front of an entire lineage of veela nobility didn’t seem very strategic, especially after everything else Hermione had experienced tonight. After everything Fleur and Hermione had already faced within their relationship, even.

So despite her annoyance at Fleur’s misplaced anger, Hermione was the one who relented. Monsieur Delacour escorted her to the empty chair beside Fleur, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder before he took his own seat beside his wife. 

Hermione didn’t chew Fleur out, nor did she shout. Instead, she straightened her back and tried to look as supportive as possible, nudging her chair ever so slightly closer to her girlfriend. 

Fleur’s temper, it seemed, had calmed down quite a bit since their last interaction. Her posture was much more relaxed and, rather than continuing to present an icy exterior, she placed a delicate hand on Hermione’s knee and leaned in to press a gentle kiss to the witch’s cheek.

“I am sorry, mon chéri,” Fleur whispered softly. “I should not ‘ave taken my frustration out on you. Camille and I ‘ave a… strained relationship. She knows ‘ow to get under my skin and uses it to ‘er advantage quite often. ‘owever, she did not ‘ave an easy life, so Grand-mère is much more lenient wiz ‘er antics zan she is wiz me or Gabrielle.”

Quicker than she expected, Hermione’s own frustration evaporated; replaced, once again, by an itch to know more about Fleur’s curious veela relatives. “What happened to her?”

“Nozing, exactly,” Fleur replied, taking the time to choose her words very carefully. “Tante Eloise, ‘er maman, is… quite self-absorbed. She ‘as always focused more on ‘er own needs zan ‘er daughter’s, to ze point where Camille lived wiz Grand-mère for most of ‘er life, while Tante Eloise travelled zrough Europe wiz a string of different lovers.”

Hermione looked around the table in search of who this Tante Eloise might have been. She saw Camille sitting on the opposite side of the table, just a few seats down from where she and Fleur were seated, but the blonde was flanked by other veela cousins who looked closer to Gabrielle’s age than anything resembling Apolline’s.

Fleur shook her head. “Tante Eloise does not come to zese events. Grand-mère exiled ‘er from ze clan years ago.”

“That’s so sad.” Hermione frowned. “Poor Camille.”

“Oui.” Fleur’s response was noticeably lackluster. “Zough zat does not give ‘er ze right to terrorize ozers for attention. Grand-mère gives ‘er enough of zat as it is.”

Hermione spared a glance at Camille again. The blonde had snatched one of the stuffed vol-au-vents from a passing gold serving tray. She’d been in the midst of taking a dainty bite of the hors d'oeuvre when she caught Hermione’s gaze and stopped, smirking in the witch’s direction. With impish glee, the veela pulled her mouth away from the appetizer and, while ensuring to keep direct eye contact, theatrically plunged her tongue into the puff pastry shell, ever so slowly swirling it inside to lap up the creamy filling.

Cheeks burning at the overt display, Hermione quickly looked away. In an effort to distract herself from Camille’s antics, she watched as serving trays of appetizers were presented and served to the chateau’s guests; glittering gold plates filling up with stuffed vol-au-vents, cheese gougères, and canapes topped with everything from sliced cucumber to seared foie gras.

Unsure of what to pick, Hermione politely accepted the first thing offered to her; a canape with smoked salmon, crème fraîche, and dill. She looked beside her to see what Fleur had picked, only to note that the veela’s plate was empty and she was glaring daggers behind Hermione.

Confused, Hermione carefully followed Fleur’s line of sight, and discovered that the person she was glaring at was, in fact, Camille. Bloody hell. Had Fleur seen that silly, obscene little gesture her cousin had made with the vol-au-vent?

“Fleur…” Hermione began, not wanting to rile her girlfriend’s temper up more than it already was. “It’s okay. It was nothing.”

“ _Non,_ ” Fleur’s tone was a miraculous convergence of silk and ice. “It was disrespectful. She knows zat you are my mate, and yet she continues to act like an immature, jealous wench.”

Hermione reached down, giving the hand resting atop her knee a comforting squeeze. “You need to ignore her. She’s just jealous and lonely—you said as much before. And regardless of her ridiculous antics, I think it’s pertinent to remind you that I have faced threats far worse than a conceited veela cousin.”

The remnants of Fleur’s temper seemed to diminish at that. The cool rigidness melted into something softer; breaking up the storm that had been brewing in the oceans of her eyes. She laced her fingers through the spaces between Hermione’s, fitting them perfectly into place. 

“You are right, mon chéri,” Fleur whispered softly, nuzzling her nose into Hermione’s cheek. “I know better zan to let Camille get to me. And it was not my intention to treat you as if you are incapable of defending yourself.”

“I know, I know. It’s okay.” Hermione smiled, leaning into the veela’s touch. Her next words were nothing short of taunting. “But if you do it again, I might have to whip my wand out and show you how just capable I am.”

“Oh?” Fleur countered evenly, though her eyes took on an almost predatory glint as she met Hermione’s gaze. The two had discovered fairly early on in their relationship that Fleur’s inner veela enjoyed being challenged. Whether it was the best decision to do so in a public setting was debatable, but Hermione was just relieved that Fleur’s anger seemed to have dissipated for good.

“What?” Hermione pressed jokingly, thumbs brushing along the blonde’s slim knuckles. “Do you think I can’t take you? Or do you know better by now?”

It may have just been the din of conversations happening around them, but Hermione almost thought that she’d heard a low growl emit from the back of Fleur’s throat. The veela kneaded at the tender flesh above Hermione’s knee, subtly hiking the navy blue skirt of her dress up an inch or two to get a better grip on the warm skin.

“Trust me, ‘ermione,” Fleur murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the witch’s jaw. “I know exactly what you can and can not _take_.”

Hermione nearly choked on her own spit, at both the double entendre and the way that Fleur’s tongue had flicked out to discreetly lick at the tender skin just below her ear.

“I am capable of withstanding anything, thank you very much! And besides, _that_ isn’t what I meant, and you know it,” Hermione whisper-shouted.

“I do not know what you are referring to,” Fleur feigned innocence, before waving one of the servers over and requesting for their champagne flutes to be filled to the brim.

“Of course.” Hermione scoffed. Because of course Fleur went with denial, and of course she’d interrupted the conversation so that she could get the last word in. It was typical Fleur behavior. Which, truthfully, was something of a relief. After all, typical Fleur behavior generally equated to non-murderous tendencies and enough charm to sell ice to a polar bear.

Content that things felt at least semi-normal between the two of them, Hermione ate her canape and sipped her champagne, listening as Fleur became distracted by three of her aunts indulging in idle gossip about a different clan of veela based in Spain.

The majority of dinner passed by without fault. The affair was quite formal, with all seven courses, and Geneviève had ensured that each one was tastier than the last. Hermione was also content to discover that she quite enjoyed the company of Fleur’s aunts who hadn’t been exiled from the clan; all three of them staunch feminists and activists with enough stories to last an entire lifetime. Hermione and Fleur were in the middle of listening to them reminisce about the prominent witch movement of 1960s Paris. They’d just started the dessert course—a decadent peppermint chocolate mousse—when Hermione felt it; Fleur’s hand sliding higher up her thigh, pushing her dress up toward her hips.

“Fleur…” Hermione warned, reaching down to discreetly push at the veela’s arm.

Ocean blue met warm cinnamon for the slightest of breaths, before Fleur returned her attention back to the ongoing conversation. She brought her hand back down to Hermione’s knee, giving it a comforting squeeze. Relenting, if only for a moment. 

However, as soon as Hermione relaxed again, the veela’s caresses trailed upward; short (albeit perfectly manicured) nails scraping bluntly against sensitive flesh. 

Hermione swallowed thickly, saliva pooling in her mouth as she tried to pull her leg away from Fleur’s hand without drawing attention to herself. When that didn’t work, and Fleur squeezed at the inside of her thigh, Hermione went to reach down to manually shove at her girlfriend’s hand. Only to discover that her elbows were, in fact, magically stuck to the table.

“Fleur,” Hermione hissed through gritted teeth, tugging against the invisible force pinning her arms down. She found that she could still move her forearms, but with her elbows effectively immobile, her range was extremely limited. It wasn’t enough to reach for her lap, nor was it enough to promptly smack her (admittedly, especially attractive in the current chandelier light) girlfriend upside her perfectly blonde head. 

Fleur, for the record, appeared to be listening to her aunts’ collective recollections quite intently. Entirely nonchalant, as if she wasn’t teasingly walking her fingertips up the bare skin of Hermione’s inner thigh under the cover of the tablecloth.

 _You bloody vixen…_ Hermione thought to herself, attempting to subtly scoot back in her chair, as if that would provide any sort of hindrance to the veela’s route. Fleur’s fingers simply followed after her, giving the sensitive skin where thigh met pelvis a teasing squeeze, causing Hermione to choke down a snort and snap her legs closed.

Now that everyone was talking, it wasn’t as if Hermione could say anything—drawing attention to Fleur would only draw attention to her, and then she’d have to explain why her cheeks were burning hotter than a thousand suns and her speech was relegated to high-pitched squeaks. Which, in turn, would not only make her the muggleborn witch who’d tempted Camille into attacking her with strange veela sex magic, but also the human whore who was getting fingerblasted beneath the banquet table during a very important clan dinner.

However, Fleur had become well-acquainted with Hermione’s body. She was a remarkably fast learner; cunning, intelligent, and scarily talented when it came to reading physical cues. It only took a few gentle caresses to coax Hermione’s thighs into relaxing again, giving Fleur’s fingers the perfect opportunity to brush over the dampening fabric of the witch’s underwear.

“Mmmm…” Fleur hummed, nodding her head as if she was responding to whatever it was her aunts were saying, rather than how wet Hermione had become in the last few minutes.

“Shit,” Hermione whispered, hips jerking backward as Fleur applied pressure to her clothed mound. The veela pretended as if she didn’t hear a thing, and instead began to languidly stroke the length of her slit, where the fabric creased just so.

Hermione did her best to not react to the newfound sensation, considering the notion that, perhaps, ignoring Fleur would induce boredom within the blonde. She chewed her bottom lip, trying to focus on other things; anything that wasn’t occurring between her thighs. Fresh-baked pumpkin pasties. The lavender fields of the Delacour manor in Provence. Items at the library that still needed to be archived. The Paris Robe Burnings of 1966, still being described in collective, fascinating detail by Fleur’s aunts.

However, after a moment of relative inactivity, Fleur deviously switched tactics. She slipped her hand beneath the waistband of Hermione’s underwear, sought out the little pink button she knew would elicit an immediate reaction, and began to rub circles against it with the tips of fingers.

As anticipated, an audibly hitched breath escaped before Hermione could smother it (It was not a gasp, and she would adamantly say as much when Fleur no doubt brought the night up in passing and ruthlessly teased her about it). 

Beside her, the corners of Fleur’s pretty pink mouth quirked at the achievement and, as if out of spite, her pace picked up ever so slightly. Hermione swallowed a moan and instinctively tried to clamp her thighs shut, but Fleur hooked a heeled foot around her ankle and tugged it toward her, firmly but discreetly keeping Hermione’s legs apart.

Oh, how Hermione wanted to throttle her. How she wished to have full movement of her arms, so that she could rip Fleur’s precious delicate lace gown right off of her body. How she yearned to drag the veela into a dark corner, fall to her knees, and devour her from inside and out, until that sly little smirk was wiped clean by sheer force of the tongue.

But then Fleur was gradually slipping two long, thin fingers into her, purposely easing in one knuckle at a time, and Hermione’s desire for revenge was left by the wayside; far too distracted by the uncertainty of whether she wanted to shamelessly grind against the blonde’s hand (She did) or crush it between her thighs (She did).

Fleur didn’t give her much time to decide; pressing a warm palm against her clit and curling her fingers in a way that drew all of the air from Hermione’s lungs. 

“F-Fleur…” Hermione groaned, covering her mouth in effort to stifle the noise. 

It was rather remarkable; the ease at which Fleur sipped from her complementary demitasse with one hand, while the other curled and flexed to hit every nerve-ending inside of Hermione’s body. All the while, she pretended to listen to her aunts’ stories, and somehow still maintained enough concentration to keep Hermione’s elbows pinned to the table.

Were she not in the middle of seeing stars, Hermione would have certainly taken a moment to marvel at Fleur’s talent for multitasking. But as it was, she was racing toward a staggering cliff’s edge with no sign of slowing down, and most of her energy was going into ensuring that Fleur’s relatives didn’t hear the desperate mewling noises currently being muffled against her palm.

While her aunts began to argue about the finite details surrounding the witch hippie movement, Fleur leaned in close to Hermione, brushing rose pink lips against the shell of her ear. “Are you alright, mon chéri? You look quite flushed.”

Oh, she was most certainly going to throttle this veela senseless. As soon as her elbows were free, her arms were going to fling forward and strangle Fleur in front of her entire clan. Gabrielle was much more suited to the title of Matriarch anyway, given that she wasn’t a merciless vixen.

“Fleur—” Hermione choked out, trying to remain discreet as her fingers clutched at the table’s edge. “I’m… I’m…” 

Merlin, it was really happening. She was going to come right there, at a formal dinner surrounded by nearly a hundred veela, with limited use of her arms and zero sense of dignity. All while Fleur Delacour nonchalantly played her body like a violin, as if it was an everyday occurrence.

The heat at the pit of her stomach was near unbearable at this point. Her heart beat erratically in her chest, and it didn’t help that Fleur was using every thrust as an excuse to grind the heel of her palm into Hermione’s throbbing clit. Her walls clenched around the slender fingers, pulsing and foreboding, and she was so fucking close that she could scream.

Fleur’s voice lowered to a taunting whisper, hot breath tickling Hermione’s neck. “You are so close. Je suis surpris. I zought you said zat you can ‘andle _anyzing_.”

As if to prove her point, Fleur retracted her fingers from where they’d been buried second-knuckle deep in Hermione’s cunt. Hermione nearly sobbed at the loss of contact, the emptiness equipped with a sharp edge as her walls clenched and clutched at nothing. 

But then Fleur muttered the muffliato charm under her breath. And she dragged those long, slim digits through Hermione’s folds, spreading her wetness, sliding up until they were sufficiently slick. And then, without warning, they were moving as fast as lightning, pitiless and unforgiving, stroking at the swollen bud of Hermione’s clit as if they were trying to elicit sparks.

Hermione was no longer running toward the cliff’s edge, but falling from it; her body careening toward the banquet table, her face burying in her hands. Her thighs clenched around Fleur’s hand, quivering as the veela unraveled her with the swiftness and efficiency her kind was known for. Hermione trembled with the force of her climax; waves pleasure hitting her all at once, all too fast, in a room far too crowded to react the way her body so desperately wanted to.

Fleur squeezed at Hermione’s shaking thighs until they gradually stilled; the only comfort the current situation could allow them. But the veela’s eyes gleamed playfully as they met Hermione’s gaze, dipping the tips of her soaked fingers into her own half-eaten chocolate mousse before she popped them into her mouth. 

Fleur had the audacity to moan as she sucked her fingers clean, shamelessly swallowing the mixture of mousse and Hermione. “Mmm… _Délicieuse_.”

Having finally caught her breath, Hermione growled lowly. “I hope you know that I’m going to _murder_ you as soon as we leave.”

Fleur licked her lips and smirked, unaffected by the threat. “I do enjoy a good _petite mort_.”

“No,” Hermione hissed. “It will be a grande mort. A très grosse mort!”

“Well zat is even better, non?”

“Oh my god!” 

Cautiously, Hermione attempted to lift her arms up from the table. Now that they could move freely, she stretched them out, rolling her shoulders and straightening out her elbows. She noted that, miraculously, none of the other veela seemed to have paid enough attention to her to notice anything off. Fleur’s aunts were still discussing the different witch movements that’d occurred throughout Paris during the 20th and 21st centuries. Madame and Monsieur Delacour were conversing with Gabrielle and her fiance, Lavender, about their upcoming wedding. Geneviève was indulging in what looked to be a second or third peppermint chocolate mousse.

Little by little, Hermione relaxed again. 

Fleur kept her hands to herself for the rest of dinner and Hermione spent the time conversing with Fleur’s aunts about their lives, finding most of their stories terribly interesting now that she had the opportunity to properly listen to them. Evidently, only one of the aunts—Tante Ottilie—was the sister of Apolline. The other two had been her wives for decades; something that Hermione found herself pleasantly surprised by. Although, that wasn’t saying much as she found herself pleasantly surprised by most veela customs, open acceptance of different sexualities notwithstanding.

Before long, the plates were cleared from the table, the din of conversations dwindled down to a soft murmur, and Geneviève was standing up from her chair, jewels still sparkling after a full seven course menu and several desserts.

The majority of the Matriarch’s speech was not spoken in French, but in a different language altogether; one that Hermione neither knew nor recognized.

“What language is she speaking?” Hermione asked, leaning closer to Fleur.

Fleur leaned in close, whispering against Hermione’s ear. The Gryffindor tried not to shiver at the rush of breath against her skin. “It is Aquitanian. Ze ancient language of zis region. Our clan ‘as been ‘ere for so long zat we still use it for formal occasions and ceremonies.”

“Fascinating…” Hermione murmured, attempting to listen to the spoken tongue. To her ears, it sounded like a strange mixture of French, Spanish, and Gaelic, and yet, at once, nothing like any other language she’d ever heard. “What is she saying? Are you fluent in it?”

Fleur nodded. “Oui. She is zanking everyone for a successful summit and discussing all of ze events zat ‘ave ‘appened zroughout ze past year. She ‘opes zat we ‘ave all enjoyed ourselves and zat ze clan will continue to strive for a better and peaceful future.”

Once the speech had come to an end, the dinner was declared officially over. Pair by pair, the hundred or so Delacours filed out of the banquet hall. Each respective pair (or group, in a few cases) said their goodbyes to Geneviève, who once again stood in the foyer, patient and straight-backed, to bid everyone adieu.

As the line was arranged by order of precedence, it didn’t take very long for Fleur and Hermione to reach the Matriarch. 

“Bonne nuit, Grand-mère,” Fleur said, pressing two kisses to her grandmother’s cheeks.

Similar to their greeting, Geneviève’s hands reached up to gently cup Fleur’s face, ever so affectionate toward her granddaughter. “Bonne nuit, ma petite fleur. Vous devez visiter davantage.”

“Je vais essayer,” Fleur replied, kissing the old veela’s knuckles.

Once she was finished with her granddaughter, Geneviève turned toward Hermione. She gave the customary cheek kisses, ocean blue eyes sparkling just like the jewels around her neck as she pulled back. “Bonne nuit, ‘ermione. It ‘as been a pleasure to meet you. We will see a great deal more of each ozer in ze future, oui?”

Hermione smiled warmly, nodding her head in agreement. “Oui, Madame. Bonne nuit.”

Despite the prominent chill in the air, the stroll to the carriage was arguably much lighter this time around. Geneviève’s fondness of her, at least upon their first meeting, gave Hermione far more confidence in both herself and her relationship with Fleur. She was relieved to have survived the clan summit, even with Fleur’s wandering hands and obnoxious cousin. But she was also quite grateful to have shown up in the first place, introducing her to aspects of the Delacour clan’s veela heritage that she never would’ve found in books.

Not long after the carriage had taken off, Fleur turned to her and smirked. “Whatever are you grinning about, ma lionne?”

Hermione closed the distance between them, fingers skating up the floral lace appliques of her girlfriend’s gown. “I’m thinking about how I’d still like to strangle you for your little escapade at dinner.”

Fleur’s smirk widened. She looped a slender arm around Hermione’s waist and tugged her closer, eyes darkening by the second. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were already prepared for round deux.”

“Round deux… and round trois… and round dix.” As she spoke, Hermione slid off of the cushioned velvet seat and sank to her knees.

Fleur laughed, light and airy. “You would not survive a round dix.”

“I would so!”

 _Perhaps not,_ Hermione thought to herself, diligent fingers working to gently hike the delicate skirt of Fleur’s gown up her long, slim legs. _But I’m bloody willing to try, at this rate._


End file.
